His Eyes Were Green
by The Fandom Garrison
Summary: "Demons are humans that came from Hell and forgot what it was like to be human." Tag to the Season Three Finale. In which Dean is never rescued from Hell, and Sam gets out of the hunting life. Sam still wanted Dean back...but not like this. (WRITTEN/PUBLISHED BEFORE SEASON 9 FINALE AIRED) (NOT A SPOILER)
1. What Became

**yah, I'm sorry. Did I mention, I'm a supernaturalist? Yay! Wanted to upload this. **

**This is an AU: Where Dean was never rescued from hell, and the series kind of...stopped there. Sam never had an interaction with Angels, etc, and never let the Devil out of his cage. As explained, he started a normal life...**

There is a house that looks just like any other house in the picturesque neighborhood, complete with a front yard, sprinklers; even a football lays half-hidden in the thick green grass, discarded from a different day of play. The paint on the house is immaculate, the mailbox is in pristine condition, and the cheerful bunches of flowers in the soil beds are bright and blooming. No one would ever suspect odd happenings here. Surely not.

Its a warm April night; a slight breeze is blowing, the moon is round, full, and bright, and the stars are sparkling like diamonds set in navy velvet. The whole scene of this peaceful setting is an ideal Texas night, and the area couldn't be more content.

If the location is commonplace, the inhabitant of the aforementioned house is even more so. It belongs to a Mr. Samuel Winchester, a man of thirty-four years; a highly respected tax lawyer, Stanford graduate (rumors say he started there only after a few years of working 'odd jobs'), married and a father of one.

But those are merely the facts.

—•—•—

Sam yawned and stretched as he typed the final period on his tax report, sighing with relief as his sore back popped satisfyingly. Seriously- taxes could be a bitch. It was a little past nine, and he needed to be ready for the Wednesday rush tomorrow. He rose from his desk. He downed a glass of water. He changed his clothes and brushed his teeth.

Even after so long, the simple routine baffled him. He brushed his teeth in the same bathroom he had been brushing his teeth in for the past two years. He showered in the same shower every night. He came back to the same place every day. No scrounging for discarded supplies, no credit card fraud. He bought things with his own, self-earned money. Most amazing of all, he had a wife. And not just that...he had a family.

_When Dean had died, Sam had been all alone. Or...it had seemed like that at the time. But for the first two months after, all he seemed to be capable of was drinking, getting drunk, getting hungover, and repeating that very cycle day by day. By month four hardly anything had changed, only now he had found himself caught in a mess of digging, digging, digging, digging, burying, burying, burying...and screaming at the dozens of crossroads he would find himself to be in. Usually with a bottle or two swinging from his blistered fingers. Screaming at God, screaming at the sky, even screaming at and for his father and Dean...but especially the demons. The demons that came sometimes and most of the time didn't come at all. He really didn't know which was worse, though, because the ones that did show themselves would tell him **hi from Dean** and **what Dean was doing** or **what would Dean think**...but never accepting his deals. _

_It was month nine when he happened to sit next to a woman about his age while he was getting more beer. All he remembers thinking at the time was that her eyes were familiar—he saw them every time he glanced in a mirror. She'd lost someone, he could clearly see...but she was also sticking to the more orthodox methods of coping, including drinking yourself stupid while huddling in the corner of a bar. He knew because he did it too...but she probably didn't go shout her lungs out at supernatural beings when she got drunk enough to attempt it. Sam himself had been reasonably plastered at the time; he had asked her, quite plainly (and rudely) who had died. She had responded for him to piss off. Then she had said it was her fiancee, Don, who had been killed in action in Afghanistan. She turned the question on him, and Sam inexplicably found himself talking about Dean—the words coming out in the correct order (as far as he could tell) but without him realizing exactly what he was saying. It wasn't liberating, it wasn't therapeutic, it sure as hell didn't make him feel better...but it was something different, and Sam accepted the fact that it broke the cycle he had been engaged in for the past one-hundred-fifty-something the two made it a habit, not because it made the pain of their losses less, or it improved their crashed and burning spirits, but because it was merely something different. And all they did was talk, and about anything. Just talked, and talked. Didn't cry, didn't flirt, didn't even consider doing THAT...just talked._

_Much of the time later is a blur, like life began to accelerate. Some moments stand out, like the first time Amelia (because that was her name, and yes, he went on to marry her) had gotten him to smile (it was over a knock-knock joke, of all things), or when he asked her in a moment of proudly not-drunken bravery to go on a formal date with him. The mark of one year, one month, when Sam had stopped talking to demons entirely (but don't think for a second that he gave up on his brother. Sam scoured lore down to the index of its index, even prayed to a God he didn't believe in between summoning rituals and cataloguing reaper movement). There was the first time Amelia and him had kissed and Sam hadn't felt like he was betraying something important. Two moments gleam especially bright: the mark of two years, five months when he had finally realized not that he was giving up on Dean, but that Dean would want him to be happy; and the mark of two years, five months and one day when he asked Amelia to marry him and she said yes._

_And the rest is all so clear._

In his own real time, Sam walked quietly up the carpeted steps and silently slipped into the small room down the hall, wincing slightly as the door creaked on it's close, before picking his way carefully through the messy space of scattered legos and capsized toy airplanes. On the night-stand, the novelty clock sent the dim blue silhouettes of various dinosaurs traveling slowly around the room in an endless cycle, around and around. A distant, nostalgic part of Sam briefly wished that he could have had these things when he had been a kid, but he quickly pushed the thoughts off his mind. He didn't like thinking about his past anyway; the present was far more important. Reaching his destination, Sam paused and, not for the first time, took a moment to just gaze at his son.

Dean Robert Winchester had been born on Saturday, January twenty-fifth, 2009, at 2:52 in the morning. Amelia had been in labor for sixteen hours before the little guy had decided to arrive. He had actually been born a month premature, and the new parents had yet to pick out a name at the time of their baby's birth. Only...Sam remembers actually crying with joy for the first time in his life as a warm yet nearly weightless bundle was placed in his arms, and blinking away the tears to find wide green eyes staring up at him—eyes that hadn't just belonged to Sam's own mother but to—

"Dean," Sam had whispered, and his exhausted love looked up at him and smiled.

"That's perfect," Amelia had murmured. And Sam realized that she was right.

Feeling a buoyant smile on his face, Sam gently ran his fingers through his seven-year-old's son's mop of messy dark curls (courtesy of Amelia's genetics) and carefully kissed his forehead. The sleeping little boy responded by burying his face further into his pillow.

"Goodnight, Dean," Sam whispered, feeling that old bittersweet ache in his chest before he willed it away. The present was more important, the present was more important...

He made his way downstairs, and entered the kitchen to make sure the security system was on when he saw a silhouette—a figure—leaning against the counter, holding a piece of paper in their hands. The kitchen was dark, and he could just barely make out their presence. "Amelia?" Sam asked, frowning. "What are you doing up?"

"Your kid's report card—straight A's. He really is just like you, huh?"

The man's voice made Sam's entrails flash-freeze. Unbidden, images swelled into his mind—the Impala he had scrapped, the pendant he kept locked in his drawer—it couldn't be it couldn't be—

Sam fumbled for the light switch (why were his hands shaking?), and the harsh yellow glare filled the room, illuminating the face of the intruder...

The stranger looked up with a too-wide grin, and Sam's heart spluttered and stopped.

"Heya, Sammy." Dean said, still smiling, and Sam stared into his eyes, his green—

_No_.

His black, black eyes.

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	2. What Winchesters Do Best

Most people would do the first thing that came to mind—but this was Sam. Too many first things came to mind.

The domestic side won. With his thumb and forefinger he took a tender fold of skin on the top of his wrist and pinched, spikes of considerable pain flaring to life.

Nothing wavered. He didn't wake up. And there was his dead brother, smiling with all his teeth. In fact, he looked identical to the last time Sam had seen him (alive)—his hair was the same length, he was the same height, and every freckle looked to be in perfect place. If Sam hadn't known better—and he did know better, he did—

His heart thudded painfully when (not) Dean shook his head teasingly, chuckling. "You're not dreaming. I think you know better than that, Sammy."

(No one had called him that in eight years)

"You're not real," he whispered.

"Wrong again." The demon picked up the empty glass that Sam had left on the counter with the tips of his fingers. Raising his eyebrows, he moved so the cup was dangling over open air—and dropped it. With a resounding noise that reminded Sam of breaking bones, the glass shattered all over the floor.

Sam looked back at those opaque black eyes, his heart in his mouth. He was frozen, but the adrenaline was scalding fire, reviving him somewhat. A shadow of an old instinct emerged in the back of his head; his own eyes skipped to the fridge. _He kept holy water in the fridge. _

But then the demon sauntered back into his line of vision, leaning casually (condemningly) against the fridge door. Sam's hands still twitched, and it's unholy smile fell slightly.

"Sammy," it said again, sounding vaguely disappointed, as if it knew each word was a stab in Sam's gut. "You've gone all soft again. I mean, look at you—you're a freaking _soccer mom._"

Sam could only stare back at him.

"I told you," it continued, "to remember what dad had taught you. To remember what I taught you."

There was something in the way he spoke that stabbed through Sam's heart—but penetrated the mindless muddle of fear and congealing grief in his brain, too. How dare this thing talk like it was Dean. How dare it pretend it stood a chance of being able to mimic all the greatness, all the strength, all the Dean his brother was. Summoning up all the dredges of his old life, Sam drew himself to full height. "Whatever you are—I know that you are—_not_—my brother."

"Oh, really?" The creature snorted sarcastically, but Sam held his ground.

"My brother's dead," he spat, feeling a flame of crippling rage incinerate his heart. "He's in Hell. I _buried_ him. I don't know or care how you got his body, but you might want to drop the fucking charade."

"Well, how 'bout this, Sammy?" The demon responded, abruptly sounding far too gleeful for Sam's liking. "D'you know what happens in Hell?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Well..." It frowned thoughtfully, it's tone that of someone discussing the weather. "It's Hell, that's obvious—first they torture you physically, but then they use your fears against you. They throw then at you again and again and again until you just—" It made a sort of box motion with Dean's hands, "—shut it all out. Become numb. Really, that's what Hell does to you. But demons, Sam? Demons are people that went to hell...and forgot what it meant to be a weak, frail, _pathetic_ human."

With a sensation like his heart was a cardboard slab being ripped in half, Sam understood.

But no—it couldn't be, some part of him stubbornly deadpanned. It just couldn't. _Couldn't_.

_His body_, a corner of his mind gibbered. _Dean's body. How—_

"You're not my brother," Sam repeated determinedly. "But how are you in his body?"

"I'm a demon, little brother." At that moment, the blackness in his eyes slid away. Sam sucked in a breath when the brilliant green pinned him down where he stood. "Picked up a few tricks during my tour, if you know what I mean." He smirked, and at that moment he looked so much like Dean that Sam took an unconscious step forward. "Wasn't hard to hook up with my old meatsuit."

_No_.

"And I'm back, Sammy—back and better than ever." Dean smiled, but his eyes were cold. "Here to do what Winchesters do best."

Some dull thought flitted through Sam's head. _Hunting? His brother was hunting?_

"Revenge."

There was a bang so loud that Sam thought the foundations of the house had just ripped apart and he flinched. But then the wind was whooshing in his ears and things were spinning, as if he was falling. Something warm was trickling and tickling down his ribs, as if he was bleeding.

Then he sees the gun in Dean's steady, sure hand, and is transfixed by the frail wisp of smoke curling up from the barrel...

A wall of darkness slams his consciousness out with an almighty crash.

_Dean_.

**hello! Thought you guys might like another chapter! How does this happen, anyway? This was supposed to be a oneshot! The things I do for you guys...**

**Legacy of Frost will be updated soon! Happy Summer! **


	3. Who Will Do The Killing

_The teacher really ought to stop talking. _

_He was so tired; Dad had kept him and Dean up all night field stripping their weapons. Timing them. It was torture. _

_But this was worse torture. The teacher was droning on about something, her incredible obnoxious voice sounding like loud, steady, high-pitched beeps. The subject was something Sam didn't really even care about. He usually didn't feel that way, but right now sleep seemed to hold a staggering amount more of interest. _

_He was fourteen. He needed his rest. _

_God. _

_Couldn't she just shut up? _

He forced his eyes open, and the world shifted—he wasn't sitting in a desk? He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The dingy white popcorn ceiling, stained vaguely yellow with mystery blobs. But the teacher was still talking, in those incessant, shrill beeps...

No. That was a heart monitor.

Hospital.

It all came back with the sensation of a bomb going off in his skull. Dean—his brother—

Sam gasped like a fished out of water and his body jerked to the side when pain sheared up his side in series of white-hot blades, setting off the blaring alarms of at least a dozen more machines. But that was fine—let them come, because he was panicking. Amelia and Dean (his son. His son, Dean. He had to make that distinction?) what if they were—oh, god, no—hurt? What if his brother had gotten revenge on his family?

At that thought, Sam stilled. Oh, _God_.

It was Dean. It couldn't be anything else. Nothing had the power to mimic something that didn't exist—meaning it had to be real. So Dean, the demon (oh, god) had shot Sam (and he had shot him. Sam knew the after-feeling of a bullet) because of revenge. And that was understandable. Too understandable, because Sam had blamed himself for Dean's death since day one.

But never—never—had Sam thought this would happen. Never had he thought, in his wildest nightmares, that it was possible for Dean to become this. Not just a demon, but one that wanted to hurt Sam, and worse, his family. Not even kill, but harm.

If Dean had wanted to kill him, he wouldn't be lying in a hospital. He'd be sealed in a body bag.

The door flew open—and Sam felt an unashamed film of burning water rim his eyes when it was a wide-eyed, disheveled Amelia, balancing their drowsy son on one hip, leading the horde of doctors into his room. Their white coats instantly surrounded him, pressing in from all sides, crowding, but Sam felt his wife's small, warm hand slip into his and he held on tight.

"Mr. Winchester?" A female doctor queried, her heavily penciled brows drawing together. "How are you feeling?"

The sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue was abruptly bitter. That was too much like Dean.

"I...I'm fine, thank you," he rasped after a minute, his throat dry.

One of the dark, thick eyebrow raised. Sam watched it with absent attention.

"I'm glad you're feeling that way, sir," she said, a touch of skepticism audible. "But given your condition, you should be far from fine. At the absolute best, we expected you to remain comatose for another 48 hours. You were shot on the left side of your chest. Your splintered ribs are the only thing that saved you from fatal lung perforation."

_Yes_, agreed Sam silently. _That, and the fact that my demon brother deliberately tried not to kill me._

This was just a warning.

"Well, I suppose I'm just lucky," he said out loud, and the doctor just nodded emphatically before sweeping out of the room. After a few nurses had checked his vitals, his IV, and replaced his bandages (and after he refused the morphine), they filed out with the warning that FBI agents were coming to question him, and he and his family were alone.

There were dark bags under Amelia's eyes. With a heavy sigh that nearly broke Sam's heart, she carefully laid a disoriented Dean on the couch at Sam's bedside, where he murmured in his sleep and snuggled into the beige cushions, fast asleep. Amelia took that as her cue to collapse into the chair next to Sam, grabbing his free hand in both of hers and squeezing tightly. She was staring at her own pale fingers.

For a moment, all was silent save the beeping of the monitor.

"We thought we were going to lose you," She finally whispered, everything about her proclaiming how close she was to breaking: her voice quiet and brittle, her lips rasping like tissue paper, her eyes blank with congealing fear.

"Never," was all he could say, returning the ferocious pressure.

"I, um..." Amelia's voice quivered and Sam's chest twisted in a knot for her; she was hurting, and he wanted so much to make it better. "I found you. At home. I..." Her voice broke slightly, taking Sam's heart with it. "I heard the gun. You were on the floor. You were bleeding. Like...like, _really_ bad. I didn't...I thought that you..." She squeezed her eyes shut, her shoulders slumping, bravely fighting back tears. Sam gently stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

"But I'm fine, now," he said, and heard the pleading in his own voice. "You're fine, Dean's fine, and I'm fine. We're alright."

(Everything was so far from alright)

"Daddy?" The moment was broken with a little, tired voice, and the most overwhelming surge of relief finally swept over Sam like a heavy curtain when Dean yawned achingly and rubbed his eyes with his fists before blinking sleepily at his parents, the picture of innocence and the childhood Sam never had. Sam smiled slightly as his little boy surveyed the scene—his father lying in a strange bed in a strange place and his mother looking really really sad—like he wasn't quite sure what was going on.

"Hey, big guy!" Sam said gently, smiling as confidently as he could. Dean's green eyes only narrowed slightly and bottom lip pushed out in an almost comical pout. Dean then clambered off of the couch, padded over to Sam's bed, and began hitching himself up the side like he used to do to escape his crib when he was a toddler. "Hey," Sam chuckled as Dean impatiently nudged his parents clasped hands out of his way and snuggled against Sam's side before almost instantly falling off to sleep again.

Amelia giggled quietly, and Sam's smile became genuine–but only for a moment. Just a moment, because in that second he realized fully what these two people here meant to him.

And that he had to protect them. He couldn't lose them. Not ever.

Within the same instant, Sam was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his entire life. And not that Dean would kill him, no.

He was afraid that if he lost his family, he might kill himself.


End file.
